I browsed through the numbers on my phone of key places and contacts I had programmed in before we left. As I scrolled through the list, I saw one for a shuttle service run by the aunt of the man we met at our graduation party.
“Hey, remember that guy we met at the party? I think his name was San . . . or Seni. He was with Sarah McAllister. He said his aunt lives here and works for a shuttle service. Should we call her for a ride to Chatuchak station?”
“Sure,” Mallory said. “I mean, why not, I’m not sure how else we can get a ride.”
Just then, we saw two men in a car driving toward us. They slowed down and finally came to a stop. Then one of them motioned for us to come over.
Mallory looked at me, then took a step toward the car, but I put my hand on her shoulder. “No,” I said. “I don’
